Compulsion
by thattookaturnforthenerdy
Summary: Co-write with Vanyiah; Not all those who boast understanding of the arts can truly capture the life and characteristics of the human soul. Hannibal may have found someone who can do just that. *read more inside, better than summary* *Hannibal/OFC pairing* *set before/during season 1* *RATING MAY CHANGE*
1. Prolouge

Prologue

The young woman turned her head, watching all the passerby in the gallery. She flashed a comely smile at the security guard, nodding her head. The little place had just opened on Rickerby street; called 'La petite mort', the gallery centered on a Gothic theme. They boasted a new selection of art every week, by undiscovered and often anonymous artists. The people with their green hair, ear spikes, and rose tattoos were looking at the Victorian scenes before them, enjoying the deft strokes of the canvas. She was there for an altogether more sinister reason. The young woman herself was an artist, of a varying kind, looking for inspiration. So far, the bright light of genius had evaded her.

Her heels clicked against the white tile floor of the gallery as her long legs carried her further through the macabre world of the imitation Victorian art. No one paid her a second glance as she eased through the decent sized crowd. A once over was enough for those who saw her in the simplicity of her black romper. Nevertheless, clothes were always the best disguises for women. Like in the famous footsteps of the Dutch spy Mata Hari, she too would hide herself from the world; she too would wear her clothes as an emblem of deception.

As she stepped through the portals the art created, vastly disappointed with the worlds she was taken to, the repetition of death, every artist doing it the same – the dull color schemes making her heart ache for the potential these anonymous donors had – the talent they were wasting. The lack of true human feeling was evident, and it disgusted her core.

But there she stood, somehow managing to fly through the paintings as if they were not worthy of a second glance, much as the crowd around her ignored her outward simplicity, her choice of a neutral color in this neutral world. She grew tired of the talentless swine that this gallery had allowed to inhabit its soul, and turned to leave.

She paused momentarily, hesitating, wondering if she judged far too quickly; and it would be a shame to walk out before she had seen the 'special donation' she had heard the crowd whisper amongst themselves about. She set herself straight and turned around again, walking back down the hallway, past the imitators, past the artists who sold themselves short, the people who were nothing like her. They had not had what it took to discover what true art could be, and would not be invited into the fold of her transcendental art movement.

She reached the end of the hallway; hanging before her was a large framed canvas. It was not the size of the piece that had entrapped her, but the subject within. She felt it as soon as she lay her almond eyes upon it that it was something worth re-doing, worth making _better. _She looked at the plaque on the wall, wondered whom she should acknowledge for bringing her her light in the darkness, but it had been donated anonymously. She had wanted to pay thanks in a more personal way, but a silent thank-you sent heavenward was all she would be able to manage this time.

Her fingers itched at her sides, ready for work, as her eyes brushed across the detail, memorizing every brush stroke, every change in color, so she could re-create it in exact dimensions; a work this inspiring, it needed to be done right. A smile painted her red lips as she turned on her heel and stalked past the crowd, standing tall above them, already making lists in her mind. There was so much she needed to do, and so much, she needed to find.

**A/N: Hey there, hope you enjoyed the little teaser for what is to come! Just a note, this will be co-written with my favorite person Vanyiah, who also a fanfiction account that you need to check out because she is awesome; she has a Sherlolly fic that I'm addicted to so if that's your thing go read it!**

**Vanyiah: Hello friends! Can't wait to show you the craziest story we've come up with together. All good things to those who eat the rude. Really though, stay around and patiently wait by our side as we clear up this rocky road to ruin.**


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Hannibal moved purposely about the kitchen, _Ave Maria_ for the violin playing in the background, allowing him to drown out the thoughts from his latest session with Will Graham. His friend had sat on his couch no more than an hour ago and explained his further descent into madness on Jack Crawford's most recent case, a tale of insanity itself. He was worried about his friend, but also intrigued at how his mind handled each new scenario, each new killer.

The music quickly allowed Hannibal to push these thoughts aside however and to focus on the knife quickly and elegantly slicing through the flesh and muscle of the veal, today's second course. The violin hit a sharp note as the steam from the boiling pot of water rose, signaling its readiness for the meat and vegetables of his dish. It was an easy activity to gently usher the leeks inside the pot edges as the onions formed the main semi-transparent vegetable circle. Almost like the crowning piece to a work of art, Hannibal carefully placed the thin slices of veal inside the boiling circle. An amused grin split his features as the violin dropped to a quiet, yet soothing, lull, and he watched with satisfaction as his meal bobbed into place.

As the meat and vegetables cooked, he turned his attention to a glass bowl; filled with only a few ingredients, he gently picked up his whisk and as the thrumming lull of the violin repeated, he gently whisked the dill sauce into existence. Setting the bowl down, he checked the clock on the oven. His veal and leeks had been cooking only a few short minutes, but he liked his meat on the light side of medium. He pulled a white plate from the cabinet, and set it on the counter next to the pot; scooping the thin slices of meat out he set them delicately on the plate, followed by the leeks and onions. He scooped out a healthy amount of the dill sauce and placed it gently next to everything else; after a healthy dash of salt and pepper, and a light garnish of the dill itself, the portrait of his lunch was complete.

He was just about to raise knife and fork to his culinary creation when there was a knock at the door. He looked slightly irritated before masking it behind a calm façade of curiosity. Striding through the kitchen, and then living room, he answered his front door, only to be greeted by the grim faces of Jack Crawford and Will Graham.

"Doctor, hope we're not interrupting anything." Jack said as greeting.

"Of course not; please come in." He stepped aside, holding the door for the two men, and ushered them into the living room. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Will stood awkwardly in the room, as he always did, feeling as though, he did not belong among the lavish carpets and rich leather couches. Jack stood serenely, waiting for the good doctor's attention before he spoke.

"Doctor Lecter, we would like your insight on a case that has just come up; if we might take some time out of your afternoon, would you like to accompany us to the scene?"

Hannibal cocked his head slightly, studying Jack for a mere moment. The man was always soft-spoken, respectfully asking permission before doing anything, but this was Jack. He never really asked, he expected. Asking him politely was just a formality that he felt he need go through; maybe some part of Jack Crawford sensed the predator beneath, and was more cautious in his presence. He turned his careful attention to Will, who shuffled his feet, seemingly eager to leave the apartment; Hannibal wondered if it was because he was uncomfortable here, or because he wanted to return to the crime scene.

"What is so interesting about this case that you're asking me to profile it?" Hannibal wondered, turning his attentions back to Jack.

The older man raised a weary head to meet his gaze and looked over at Will, a gleam in his brown eyes. Will stopped looking around and faced the window as he spoke.

"I think, Doctor Lecter, it's something you should see for yourself."

Hannibal took a moment to think about his lunch, half-forgotten in the kitchen, and the look on Will Graham's face.

"Alright; let me get my coat."

†

Jack lifted the yellow crime scene tape, Hannibal sliding underneath with ease. Will followed closely, and Hannibal could sense the anticipation the young man held. The car had brought them to the Baltimore Somerset Outdoor Mall, a relatively new structure that had only been open a few years. Beyond the yellow tape a group had gathered, as always happened when the blaring red and blue lights were heard, ushering the noise of discontent in their community. The flies would always come to an open wound.

"What are these people doing here?" Jack yelled at the officers, pointing to the group gathered behind the tape. "You know to disperse civilians!"

Hannibal left Jack to his own devices, as he followed quietly behind Will, who was heading further towards the actual scene and, Hannibal noted, further from reality. It seemed with every step his friend took he sunk further into the recesses of his mind and became less himself, and more of the idea of the person who had committed the crime. Will stepped aside, and allowed Hannibal his first view of the scene. The bickering of Jack, the emptiness of Will, everything was wiped from his mind and was filled with the vision before him.

He immediately thought of the story of the Little Match Girl, and inwardly appreciated the artist's attention to detail. Because this was a true work of art; lying against the base of the fountain, a little blonde girl, no more than seven, lay curled in on herself, almost as if hugging her bones to keep the warmth inside. She was surrounded by a small pile of burnt matchsticks, and was still clutching one in her tiny hand. Her blue eyes were half-closed, and upon closer inspection, her lips were a blended shade of blue and purple, suggesting hypothermia.

Next to the little girl, stood an old woman, a gentle smile touching her wrinkled face. She held her arms out, open, accepting the little girl's soul, just like in the story. Drawn on her open palms was the image of a star, the falling star that ushered the grandmother's soul forth to carry her granddaughter. Hannibal stood straight, a small smile touching his otherwise stoic features. He noticed Will out of the corner of his eye, slowly becoming himself again.

"The little girl was done first; she had to be, she's the centerpiece." Will said, stooping over to examine her closer. Hannibal noted the look of revulsion, of nausea that came over Will's features. "Whoever did this has an immense amount of patience – setting the bodies, the clothing, the makeup, that all took time. At least a month to find his victims and embalm them, or whatever he's done to set their tissue like this."

"Hannibal?" Jack asked, silently stepping up beside the two men. His face as well, Hannibal could see, showed slight hints of hatred; it seemed the two FBI men agreed as to their thoughts on the killer. They were disgusted by him, repulsed by how he could do something so…barbaric. The older man hid it well after many years on the force, but still, his disdain was there. Hannibal however, was glad that he had come along. It was always pleasant to see Baltimore's blooming talent and to be privy to how other critics thought of the work he and the other artists of the city worked so hard on. It was pleasant to know that they were well thought of enough to cause Jack Crawford to look like he was uncomfortable, crawling in his skin.

"Clearly the work of someone who sees themselves as a budding artist; they want to be seen, and appreciated, not unlike Tobias Budge. Unmistakably he wants his work critiqued; why else put it out in the open where everyone could see?" He turned to Jack. "Not unlike the main exhibit in a gallery is it, out here?" He gestured to the wide-open space of the mall. "They've set up first and are filling a museum with their work as it is discovered."

Jack nodded, taking in the information Hannibal had given him. "Thank you Doctor Lecter, sorry to take up so much of your time. If you might, would it be all right to ask you out again, if more of these crop up?"

Hannibal nodded his head. "Of course, Jack; you can come to me at any time."

The men shook hands and Hannibal departed, heading back towards the car that had brought him here, leaving Jack and Will to further investigation.

Hannibal perceived that 'The Little Match Girl' was an opening piece, a statement and an obvious call for feedback, not to mention adoration from curious fans. Yet a question still held an uneasy feeling; would he receive another invitation from the artist? Would he be allowed to see the opening of an exclusive new gallery for the FBI? He knew the growing art collection was one he wanted to see; whatever happened, he was thoroughly interested in the talented person bringing these works to life.

†

The young woman went easily unnoticed in the crowd, her casual yet demure clothes once again hiding her in plain sight. The best disguises were ones you could wear in the open, and required minimal work. Her ears burned as she caught the stream of words that flowed about her, out of the mouths of the curious onlookers surrounding her. She listened however to their critiques and comments as an artist should, arguing that it would help her grow and diversify herself. As she listened, she also looked; paying her attention mostly to the pale man with the curly hair who stood still, looking at her creation. His back was to her so she could not see much but he seemed to be inhabiting his innermost self, and ignoring everything and everyone around him. The older black man was heard shouting at the officers under him to get rid of her, get rid of the people she stood with; she decided then she did not like his harsh voice or the way he threw himself about the scene.

The other man, the third musketeer, stood silently, appraising her work it seemed. She watched him closely, herself fascinated with what she saw. He was cool, collected, looking nothing like anyone else on the site – he alone seemed unfazed by what he saw; in fact, he looked almost…affected…as if it were any other normal field trip to the art museum. He appreciated it, appreciated her. Her heart filled with joy and pride as she stared at him, staring at her work. Before the officers ushered them off the premises, she caught his name, being said by the man who threw his weight around. _Hannibal. _She thought, savoring it. _Now that is a name. _

She smiled as she walked, alone on the way to her car. "That was fun."

**A/N: Hey, nerdy here, hope you enjoyed chapter 1! We'll definitely be working more but between work and family not sure how often we'll be able to update! I'll say at least once a week, like Sunday, because that's our day off but no guarantees! We will be working our darndest to churn this out for you, while still maintaining quality work (this is quality work right?)**

**Vanyiah: *nods* I'd hope this is quality work! What with the best minds on the dot over here! It's quite a lot of fun writing these things out with Nerdy. A lot of stress mixed with the intensity of melding ideas and words together. I hope everyone likes the steady opening thus far! Leave us a review or small comment on your own personal thoughts so far! Invisible cookies for you, and you, and you, and you over there in the corner! **

**Nerdy: *cookies for those who review, a la Oprah***


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Hannibal stepped under the police tape, the second time in three months. The large crowd of press and officers need not tell Hannibal that something reminiscent from the past had fallen over Baltimore once more. Amongst murmurings and mentions of a little girl and an old lady, he could discern that this was another invitation to the gallery of the bewitching.

"Doctor Lecter."

"Jack." Hannibal held out his hand for a friendly shake.

Jack Crawford took it, looking at the scene Hannibal had just pushed through.

"It doesn't get much better in here." Jack said, nodding towards the door behind him.

"Well under the circumstances I'm not surprised." Hannibal allowed Jack to usher him into the building. "Murders like this, ones that appear as the twisted delusions these do, scare people who are used to everyday crime; it does not surprise me that there is a large police presence today."

"Yes, I often wish we met on better terms." Jack acknowledged. "And I will agree Doctor Lecter that the common man is often scared of what he doesn't understand."

"Are you afraid Jack?" Hannibal asked, pausing in the hall to stare at the man.

Jack stared at the psychiatrist for a moment, studying his face, before answering. "I admit that these cases have me rattled, and it is harder to go to sleep at night in my bed with a dying woman. But we will understand him, and there won't be anything to be afraid of."

Hannibal allowed a small smile to cross his face as Jack carried on ahead of him. Yes, the common man was often afraid. It was good then, that Hannibal was so very, very, exceptional.

Hannibal took in the sights around him as Jack led him to where the newest body lay; he could tell that once the building had been a place of grandeur, and opulence. Now however it was rundown, falling apart; the once scarlet curtains had turned a mustard-brown and the peeling mold on the walls told as to their state. He thought it was a wonder the place was even still open.

They reached what had once been the Baltimore Golden Bell Music Hall. Jack put a hand on the once shining, and now rust-stained, door handle, and turned to look at Hannibal.

"Doctor Lecter, _The Violin Student._"

†

The young woman succinctly buttoned her coat in hopes to block out the chill of the early December Baltimore air as she prepared to exit the building.

"Bye, Anino! Have a good rest of the day! Be careful out there!" a chorus of female voices rang from the rear of the salon as the girls waved at the Asian female.

A smile sprung up instantly on Anino's face, and she raised her hand to wave back as she replied, "Thank you! I'll see you trouble makers later!"

The fading music of women giggling followed her out the door as she gave one final good-bye to her friends. Her boots made small tapping noises as she walked down the long sidewalk. Rather glad she had a few hours to herself, before her next job at the art studio started. A gush of cold wind blew up against Anino, and she became increasingly grateful that her long black hair was tucked safely underneath her scarf. Heaven only knew the many times her hair had gotten free, and tried to break away from her head, and fly into the sunset with the wind.

A bell chimed as Anino threw herself against the entry door.

"Afternoon, Marci!" the Asian woman more than ran quickly into the cafe as she was chased by another flow of cold wind.

The cafe owner's daughter raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the trussed up bundle of entangled scarf, and dark hair of the other female. Through wind, snow, and hail, Marci would give her friend the benefit of the doubt of incorporating her interesting choice of fashion at this time of the year. Always well dressed, but out of place for Baltimore. An elegance and outdated vibe emitted from the Asian female. Though speaking of which, Marci did believe that Anino had a sense of confidence and bravery for pulling off a floral dress with bright wine colored tights.

"You off at the studio today?" Marci inquired softly as Anino's dark eyes scanned the menu above her. Marci's eyes followed hers, curious as to what delicacy she would experience this time. Last week, it was Marci's famous Shepard's Pie.

"Only Friday and Saturday." Anino replied aimlessly as she chewed on her bottom lip. "I'll try that mixed salad you keep talking about."

Anino had already pulled out her wallet and was filing through the various dollar bills she had. Her dark eyes looked up at the total, settled on the five-dollar bill, and handed it to her friend with a small grin,

"Keep the change as a tip."

The young barista smiled back as she said her thanks, and in return handed back a water bottle.

"On the house. Go ahead and grab a chair, and I'll bring your food out."

Marci stepped off to the side as she busied herself. Dishes and silverware clanked and clinked as Anino walked off towards a table near the window with the cafe's logo embossed on the front. Somewhere above her, the local news anchor rambled on about the many community functions coming around this time of year. Nothing really catching onto her attention as dark eyes watched the many pedestrians pass by the glass window.

"Now, onto pressing news. Today we mourn the loss of a man who we have all come to know and love, as a prominent musical figure in the Baltimore community. Marianne has more on the subject..."

Oh, that was something right there. Anino slowly grinned into her hand as she covered her face to faux yawn. Her eyes watched the TV intently now, her mind running a million thoughts through her. Marianne gripped tightly at the microphone she held, her face colored red from the obvious cold that nipped at her tender skin,

"I'm standing here today at the two-hundred year old Baltimore Golden Bell Music Hall, and words escape me tonight. The body of legendary violinist, Dittmer Laus, was found hours earlier by local police. Officers are unwilling to give any more facts on the situation of Mr. Laus' body or if there was a hand of foul play..."

Oh, how her ears tingled and her fingers twitched at that name. Such raw and undiluted talent. Blessed with not only a timeless understanding of music, and its emotional connection, but those hands! How easily they flowed and produced music beyond any comprehension. Yes, Anino would indeed mourn the loss of such a heavenly man. The world never truly knowing how he could communicate music to bring one down to their knees and tears to their eyes.

Yet, no one needed to know just how meaningful he was to her. How his playing spoke to her on a deeper level, and it numbed the pain that pumped through her veins. His talent inspiring not only her, but her sister, Fatima, as well. Sweet Fatima, cut from the same cloth as he. Music and love strewn into one human being who had such compatibility with the violin; as if the instrument was made for Fatima especially. And the pain from her death was to be Anino's only residing companion.

Anino played with the salt and peppershaker as she remembered the softness in Fatima's face whenever she would play the old violin their Grandmother had passed onto her, all excitement, and readiness to master some stringed instrument. Fatima's interest and willingness to hone her craft reverted Anino back to being three years old and greedily eating at the chocolate cake batter, unwilling to wait for the cake that would surely come after. Even though her sister had been five years younger, Fatima had showed wisdom beyond her years. The younger had been able to sit for hours at a time, gaining calluses and hard hands to learn something important to her. The older could not wait and had missed many opportunities to hone her own talents and specialties – until now.

The female reporter's voice came back into focus as Anino came out of her reverie.

"We will be keeping you updated as the police give us more information to share with the public. Until then, this has been Marianne Reed reporting for Channel 7 news."

The TV abruptly came out of focus as Marci's arm waved in front of her face, catching Anino's attention. She set the salad down in front of her.

"Tell me how you like it, OK?" Marci told her, holding a tray of food in her other hand.

"I will!" Anino assured with a bright smile, her dark eyes glinting with mischief and promise, something Marci waved off as the other female' s particular quirkiness.

†

"Doctor Lecter, _The Violin Student." _

Jack ushered Hannibal into the dingy room, and almost as if a choreographed dance, the officers on scene moved as one so that suddenly the body of the dead violinist was revealed to him. For a brief moment, he looked almost alive still. Skin sustaining a warmth and peace that gave the aged music hall a sort of nostalgic atmosphere, his half-closed lids retaining a last treasured glance at the instrument he held in his hands. His black tuxedo held the fresh 'right from my closet' press and upon closer inspection, the garment appeared to be cut from decades old cloth.

Hannibal stood up straight and looked at Jack. "This suit was taken from his home; it's old, probably one he wore during his first performances."

He took a quick cursory glance around at the room. "You said this was _The Violin Student?"_

Jack nodded. "It was left as the title of the sheet music he is supposed to be playing, right there."

Hannibal followed Jack's gaze to the sheet music on the stand in front of Mr. Laus' chair; indeed, there in a fine scripted hand, were the words _The Violin Student, Paris. _

Hannibal stood up straight and looked around; there were many more discoveries to be had he was sure. He turned to Jack and bowed his head slightly.

"Do you mind, if I play detective for a little while?" He asked Jack, his accented tongue very much sounding like the vocal embodiment of crushed velvet.

Jack looked strangely at the psychiatrist, wondering why he felt the need to ask permission. "Of course."

Hannibal nodded his head gratefully and crisply removed his coat and suit jacket; he handed them to an officer, giving him a glare that said 'be careful with my precious things'. He rolled his shirtsleeves and snapped a pair of latex gloves against his wrist. He looked around one more time, almost wondering.

"Where is Will?" He asked, finally realizing what had been missing. Hannibal was almost embarrassed that it had taken him this long to remember his friend, colleague, and patient.

"Will was visiting with Abigail Hobbs when the call came in. He'll be here later." Jack told him.

Hannibal nodded, no longer concerned, and turned to begin his examinations. If Will was with Abigail, that was fine; the two broken birds needed time to fix their wings.

Jack followed Hannibal's fingers as they pointed to various parts of Mr. Laus' black suit. Particles of dust had settled over his slicked back hair and shoulders in a thin layer. Somewhat suggesting he had been there for some time but not too long to have any serious consequence on the body. He was placed precariously in the old weathered down wooden chair to be posed elegantly with the antiquated violin that shone brilliantly in the dim light, a beacon to Dittmer Laus' spirit as it traveled to the other side. Something that Hannibal noted held symbolism over the entire piece; something about this scene in general held a passing of sorts. Perhaps letting go of the past and honoring what Mr. Laus was and would always be. A wealth he gave freely to the public. A wealth that was his music. A wealth that was immortalized. Forever.

Hannibal carefully opened the man's hands and removed the violin and bow from him. He set it down gingerly on the table next to him and began feeling Dittmer's neck for trauma or looking for laceration marks or possibly even puncture wounds. Anything to give him a clue as to how the man had been killed; he knew postmortems were never rushed and Hannibal had a few theories Jack's gaze roamed over the body, observing what he could with the details left before them. The body was clearly taken care of more than that of the Match Girl's. A certain tenderness and care that went into every step of preserving the tissue, down to the clothes, and the grooming that came with it. Even the shoes had been recently shined; the smell of shoe cleaner still permeated the air. Dittmer Laus was as special as he was ancient and forgotten; but not to the killer—whoever they were. To him, Laus was as present as a family member.

Hannibal could tell nothing about the way he had been killed from his rudimentary investigation; he would have to wait patiently for the autopsy. He looked up to see Jimmy Price cutting a piece of the suit from the corpse.

"We need to test it, see how old it was. If you say it came from his house…" Jimmy shrugged, not bothering to finish his sentence.

"Jack, I think I am done here for today. There is nothing more I can tell you."

"You haven't told us anything Dr. Lecter." Jack pointed out.

Hannibal looked affronted, and slightly embarrassed, as he remembered that everything had been going on in his mind alone.

"You need Will Graham obviously, to tell you if I'm on the right track – but this man was important to our killer. He was well taken care of, more than the Little Match Girl or the old lady. His hair has been gelled, his suit pressed, his shoes shined. Whoever killed him wanted him to look like he was about to perform."

Hannibal swiped a finger down the cheek of the corpse. "He is even wearing makeup to give him an even skin tone, to not look so sallow."

Jack nodded his head. "Thank you Doctor, that's very helpful. I'm sure Will will be able to confirm a few of your suspicions."

Hannibal nodded his head, clearly sensing the dismissal, now that he was no longer needed. He turned to take off his gloves, and spied the violin that he had set down. Delicately, on a whim, he picked it up and flipped it over, so he could see the underside.

_Interesting. _He thought. _This is Laus' violin. _He looked over at the old man, new theories abounding.

"What is it Doctor?" Jack asked, seeing the way Hannibal stared at the stringed instrument.

"Nothing Jack, except Laus was a man after my own heart." Hannibal smiled as he motioned towards the underside of the violin. Faint etchings were carved and Jack squinted at the slight lettering and shook his head, unable to decipher the language or name.

"I don't understand it, Doctor Lecter. Can you?"

"Den der jager to Harer af een busk, faaer sieden nogen af dem_." _Hannibal said clearly, his voice sounding for the first time, as if it were the master of the language it spoke. 

"_You must not run after two hares at the same time._" Hannibal said softly, looking at the man with a slight glint in his eyes, a grin present as he spoke, and his voice again sounding crumpled by the English language. Jack almost missed the strange words that had just flowed from Hannibal's mouth; they sounded more natural, more _him. _

"Concentrate on one thing at a time, is what it literally means, Jack." He handed the violin to Jimmy who quickly bagged it.

"If you try to do more than one thing at once, your concentration wanes and you will end up with neither." Hannibal explained as he put his suit jacket back on, and then his coat. He removed the latex gloves and threw them in the trash.

The older black man gave the good Doctor a questioning look before he asked, "I take it you share the same insight as the good Mr. Laus here."

"Of course. We are both from Denmark, and besides—I was a big fan."

†

_3 months earlier…(October)_

At work, Anino and her friend Kiki were talking. All the other girls had clients who had come in, but somehow the 3:00 schedule had been open for both the girls, and no one had booked it. They sat in the lobby, drinking complimentary coffee and chatting, waiting for their 4:30 appointments.

While they were talking, Kiki began digging through her bag, nodding head at Anino's story, until she found what she had been rifling for. Triumphantly, she produced a ticket of some sort and handed it to Anino.

"What on Earth?" Anino instinctively took the ticket being placed in her hands. "What is this for?"

The other hair stylist folded her hands in her lap. "You like classical music right? Apparently, there is some big party down at the old music hall tonight. I was able to score a ticket from the boss; I figured I could maybe rub shoulders with some people while Mitch was out of town, get in good with a future boss of his." The woman raised a brow conspiratorially and Anino immediately understood.

Kiki's husband was a businessman and was out of town a lot. When he was in town, he hung out with a lot of people from the same firm. Kiki thought if she could make herself noticed, and talk Mitch up, he could get a promotion at the office and stay in town more.

"I thought they closed the Golden Bell?" Anino asked rather softly, and eyed her coworker with confusion. "With it being old and no one wanting to fund the renovation, hasn't it been shut for years?"

"Well, word from around town says that the ballroom inside is still functioning. Maybe only parts of it is run down? They're trying to get one more good use out of it before either the musician or the Golden Bell croaks." Kiki said nonchalantly and really without much thought as she eyed her nicely polished nails.

Anino bit back whatever momentary spite she felt for the woman and shrugged. Kiki had never been one to appreciate the finer things in life, let alone classical music and its offerings.

"Well so why are you not going?" Anino asked, giving the ticket a more thorough look.

_Baltimore Golden Bell Music Hall, Admit One. One Laus Chance. _

"Mitch is getting back in town tonight; he caught an earlier flight out of Heathrow and I want to see him. It's been a month-and-a-half, and Skype calls are not enough." Kiki shrugged.

Anino's brow rose suggestively; she understood what her friend was implying, and did not want to go there. "Do you know anything about this party?" She asked.

"It's some sort of retirement party I guess. Some older guy from here who got pretty famous as a classical violinist." Kiki waved it off, not caring. "Please just say you'll go." She leaned in closer, to whisper: "I like you more than the other girls here, don't make me give it to one of them."

Anino hid a giggle behind her hand. "Of course I'll go for you." She twiddled the ticket she held in her hands. "Do you at least know the violinist they're celebrating?"

Kiki stood up and stretched, checking her watch. "Some guy…Laus, something. Dittmer? I don't know it was a weird name."

"Dittmer Laus?" Anino wondered aloud, hoping against hope it was true.

The man was something of a hero to her; he had been the inspiration for her little Fatima wanting to be a violin player. Through all of her health struggles she continued to practice the violin every day, just as he had when he was sick. The chance to meet him was too good a one to pass up.

"Thank you so much Kiki!" Anino stood up and threw her arms around the older woman, planting a soft kiss on her cheek.

Kiki returned the affectionate gesture, a little confused why her friend would be suddenly so happy. "It's just a boring party Anino, calm down."

Kiki disentangled herself from the other woman, and excused herself as she had a client coming in soon.

Anino carefully placed the ticket in her bag and went back out on the floor with her friend, unable to wait for the event later that evening.

By the time she was off work it was already 5:30. She was in a frantic rush, tearing her closet apart, trying to find something reasonable and sophisticated to wear. She needed something that was a statement, made her presence known, but not astonishingly brash or noticeable. She wanted to be seen, not remembered.

Her gaze fell to a box at the bottom of her closet, her fingers opening the top and removing the black romper inside from its tissue paper hiding spot. It had been an impulse buy, the full lace sleeves garnering her attention in the first place. In any other instance she would have walked away from the romper, expensive as it was; she was not known to spend more than $30 on a single item of clothing. Indeed she was more known for her trips to Goodwill and Salvation Army to find her staple pieces. Best to count one's blessings, she thought to herself, glad for having bought the item now.

She slipped the soft garment on and sauntered over to her vanity, combing out her hair while she looked in the mirror. She needed to get the black tendrils in exactly the right places. She pieced her hair into a French braid crown, keeping the look in place by pinning little gem affectations into her hair.

Her hair and outfit done, she took time to look her face over. The makeup that she had worn to work simply would not do, and she had washed her face to give herself a blank working canvas. Tonight was important and she had to get it right. One could not look too simple, and not the part of a confident killer. Such graces took time, indeed.

Anino looked down at her vanity table, eyeing the many makeup brushes strewn about, eye shadow singles shoved off to the side, and various makeup palettes stacked on top of each other. The drawer below was pulled open, lipstick tubes rolling about as her fingers shuffled through, before she made a decision on a deep matte cranberry. She artfully settled the color in the middle of her lip, blending outward with her finger just as her Inay had taught her.

A little brushing here, a little blending of the blush and the masterpiece was almost there. The gold eye shadow she had always favored making its final entry into society, blending over Anino's soft eyelids. Everything looked together and complimentary. The colors thrived on her skin tone and complimented her overall look well enough. She took one last look in the mirror as she thought, never a loud appearance, but always a pretty face.

_Later that Evening…_

Anino grabbed her next morsel off a gilded plate as a waiter walked by; she had already sampled a few of the evening's delicacies and a fine chef clearly had prepared them. She popped it quickly into her mouth, hoping the taste of fine food would calm her fraying nerves. The well-cooked salmon and tartar sauce and dandelion leaf tasted fresh as it slid down her throat. She quickly washed it down with a swish from her champagne glass.

She had been mingling at the party for the better part of an hour now, and Mr. Laus was still nowhere to be seen. She hoped his failing health had not gotten the better of him tonight. She turned her head to stare at the clock on the wall, and there, mingling with the social elite of the Baltimore public, was Dittmer Laus.

Her heart began to flutter, revealing just how nervous she truly was. Now that she was confronted with his presence, she had no idea how to tell him just how much he truly meant to her. Words escaped her, and were not enough. She needed to really show him…to let him know.

The man looked good for being nearly sixty-seven; his face betrayed barely a wrinkle except when he smiled. The lines around his mouth and on his forehead became quite evident whenever he did so. His eyes were still wide with the wonderment of a child, the piercing green the same as on his first album cover. His snow-white hair was gelled back into an elegant pomp and he was still just as tall and thin as he had always seemed to her from his photographs. His thin lips broke into a smile with every new greeting from a guest, his wrinkled hands eagerly shaking the unlined ones of his much younger invitees.

Anino knew that she had to act, had to invite herself over to his circle, but she could not bring herself to move. This man and his music had brought her so much comfort over the years that to see him as he was now broke her heart. She steeled herself, drinking one last time from her glass, before setting it on the tray of a passing waiter. She walked over to where he and a younger man were conversing, and very sweetly, introduced herself.

"Mr. Laus?" She seemed to hesitate as the words left her lips, suddenly unsure if she should not pretend nothing had been spoken and back away.

The man turned around slowly, his back hunching slightly as he did so.

"Hello darling." He said softly, his accent sparking delightfully off his tongue.

"Mr. Laus I," Anino held her hands up, struggling for words, "I don't know how to tell you how important your music has been to me."

The old man's eyes lit up at hearing the words, and he turned to dismiss the younger man, sensing a story in the young woman's words and gestures.

"My grandson, Baldur." He told her, after the young man had stepped away. "One of the few at this party who will remember me." His tone was sad, wistful. "Now, why don't you let this old man sit, love, and tell me what you want to say."

Dittmer Laus held out his arm for her to hold as he led her to a secluded corner of the room, and waited patiently for her to seat herself on one of the old velvet couches, damask curtains gently flowing down from the ceiling to accent the walls next to them. He sat next to her and put a gentle hand on her knee.

"Now dear, tell me what's on your mind."

It was almost too much to bear, hearing the words her father should have been there to say, coming from the lips of the man whose music had raised her. She would have taken Dittmer over her father any day.

"My little sister took up the violin because of you. My mother used to play your albums, and it made Fatima want to be a violinist. She was ever so good, and practiced hard every day for hours, to the point where her fingers bled and she grew calluses on top of calluses."

Dittmer listened intently, staring at the younger woman with a serene expression. Her story clearly mattered to her, so it mattered to him. He could see the wisdom in those dark eyes, and wondered why her appearance deceived the matured soul residing within her.

"She was nine when our mother died, and father couldn't cope with the loss. At fourteen, I became her world. I took care of her, I supported her talents, and took her to lessons. I never let her miss one. Then finally, when Fatima was sixteen, she became very sick. Became too weak to play, and she could barely lift her hands. But she still listened to your music. She persevered and vowed to get better, like you had, to continue on her dream."

Anino's voice became thick with unshed tears and Dittmer took the young woman's hands in his own, consoling her with soft noises.

"She died very soon after that, having gotten out of bed to try playing. She couldn't support herself and fell, cracking her head on the nightstand."

The heavy burden was almost transferred to the older gentleman. Understanding the darkness that loomed over her was still present; a darkness he too familiarized with. Bless her; the young woman probably blamed herself.

"I never stopped listening to your compositions. The two years I have had to live without her, your music is the one thing that has kept me sane. Kept me going, you see?"

"Oh darling, I am so sorry about your sister. How painful that must be, losing the only family left to you. I understand entirely."

Anino looked up, the tears that threatened to fall held at bay.

"My own wife died shortly after the birth of our daughter, and I had to raise her all alone. Many times I wondered if she would have done a better job, or the things she could have taught her that I was unable. Many things she has learned from her mother-in-law here." Dittmer shook his head. "But I never once regretted having the child; my wife left something precious behind, and it is the only piece of her I have left, in my little Daimi."

He seemed to think for a moment. "Well, not little; she's the mother of the strapping young man I just shooed away." He laughed with delight and his green eyes shone.

However, Anino could sense an underlying sadness. The man truly believed that he was alone now; his family was gone and all grown-up. A forgotten beautiful novel that was inexcusably shoved away. Though he had been famous once, many had forgotten his name. Truly, many at the party had no idea who he was, and like Kiki, had come because the tickets had been won. Not her; not Anino.

Anino covered his wrinkled hands in hers, gripping desperately, trying to make him understand what she was about to say. Praying above all else that he would become her Madonna; her pillar of light one more time. One last time.

"Mr. Laus, your music was important to my sister, and important to me. Let me show you how significant, please. The world deserves to remember you and your music for the gift that it is. Let me do this for you."

The older man beheld the look that had come across the younger woman's gaze, the passion and hunger…but not for him. No, this was something else entirely he decided. That sort of hunger was reserved for men and women who were driven with a cause. Their dogma. Their Magna Carta.

"Min lille ven, whatever are you talking about?" He asked softly, still in the decidedly soft tones of his old age.

Anino took a chance; she wanted him to be honored, and she wanted him to agree to it. If not, the police would surely be called and her homage to her sister forgotten, as she rotted away in prison. She leaned up and whispered, almost conspiratorially, in his ear, how she would honor his legacy. How no more pain would befall his blessed person. His death would be painless as it would be forever in stone.

He listened, giving every word the good grace to hear it spoken. When finished, she shied away, almost embarrassed, and sat there to let him think. He felt almost taken aback, such things shouldn't plague such a sweet creature, he thought. However, looks were deceiving, and he felt the slight fear fade off without much after thought. If anything, he should have been happy that such a pretty dear would even insinuate such an act. After a moment's silence, he turned his head to look down at her.

"I am terminal you know. I could drop any day, min ven. I do not want to die not knowing when; I want to control it, and I do want to be remembered." He took her hand in his, and squeezed it affectionately. Knowing that his action had sealed the deal. Knowing this night he would become his own Memento Mori.

"Allow me to say goodbye to Baldur, to seem as if I am retiring for the night. I shall grab my violin and an old suit, as you have so beautifully envisioned. After all, if I die, I shall die with my own things."

His papery hand left hers as he stood. Finding the faces of his family to carry him on with the plan. An encouragement for a dead man.

"I shall be back in a few minutes; please wait for me here."

She nodded, unsure if he was actually agreeing, or feigning a very clever ruse. Her heart soared and leaped however, grateful that he at least was entertaining the idea of becoming a beautiful work in her gallery.

Anino watched as he did indeed clasp Baldur's hand and hug him, speaking to the only male relative that he had.

"Baldur, min smuk prins, I must retire for the evening. These old bones cannot handle this much excitement in one night."

"Bedstefader, will you be alright, driving home by yourself? Do you need any help getting home?"

Dittmer shook his head, a smile playing on his thin lips. "Thank you min smuk prins, but I will be fine. I promise."

"Alright bedstefader, if you insist." Baldur leaned forward and gave his grandfather's papery cheek a kiss. "The guests will be sorry you're missing the auction, but I'm sure they will understand."

"Thank you for understanding min dyrebare."

"Always grandfather."

The young man's glistening dew green eyes followed behind him, watching as he made it through the crowd and to the front door. Sure that his grandfather would be all right, he returned to wooing the young woman he had selected for his evening's romp.

Anino waited patiently on the seat, waiting for her violinist to return to her. A few minutes after he had walked away from his grandson, Dittmer returned to her side.

"We'll go out this way, follow me." Dittmer gently clasped her hand in his, and helped her to stand, pushing aside one of the damask curtains to reveal a hidden door, the stain of the wood mottled against the grain, a remnant of an older age. He pushed his frail body against the door as he turned the metal knob, a faint squeak sounding from the old hinges.

"The servants staircase; none of these people are old enough to have been here while it was still in use. Come on." And so he offered his arm again as they walked through the old passage, and very soon the Dittmer opened another door that led to the parking lot. It was only a short walk to his car, the door hidden in plain sight behind an overgrowth of ivy; easy enough to fight their way through.

A slight thrill elicited through his body at the thought of running away with a younger woman. It brought a smile to his wizened features. Silly thoughts for a silly man, indeed.

"My violin and suit are in the backseat min lille ven. Let me get them, and then we may continue."

On their way across the lot, she asked, "If I may, who carries around their old violin and vintage suit so nonchalantly in their car?"

Laus acknowledged the younger woman's confused look as she eyed his weathered violin case and black garment bag. Seeing this made the older man's face light up with excitement. His chuckle permeated the brisk night air that had begun to make his face flush.

The reaction made Anino tilt her head to the side, not quite sure how her inquiry could be so amusing. Then again, the way he looked at her made her slightly uncomfortable with embarrassment for having opened her mouth.

Anino coyly looked down as he replied to her. "There was an intended bid later this evening. A little something we came up with to possibly preserve this old music hall, Min lille ven, if anyone were interested in my relics."

Laus' hand came down gently on her shoulder as he continued to address her, "It was a little hope and faith that these old items would help restore this place. However, tonight it restores beauty to these old bones instead."

As she unlocked her car door, she asked, "Just to satisfy my curiosity, why did you agree Mr. Laus?"

"Because I am tired of living. Death shall be my Master tonight, and I shall succumb willingly to her cold embrace. Besides, fælles sorg er halv sorg." He slipped into his tongue with a shrug.

Dittmer smiled at her confused look. "I forget sometimes that not everyone is from the old country. A shared sorrow is half sorrow, my dear. And I am sure we have more than one in common."

†

They sat next to each other in the living room, Dittmer taking full advantage of the love seat as he eased comfortably back into it. The cushions agreed with his old and tired body. He observed the brown lady next to him, her eyes filled with adoration and care for the elderly man before her. Anino's heart beat calmly against her ribs, watching the aged face that gave her a tenderness she had experienced only now. She wondered if that was the look, a father was supposed to bestow upon a daughter. She had never thought about it before.

"My manners, I apologize. Would you like a cup of tea? I'm sure it would do some good to warm you up." Her small soft hand barely touching the back of his. Possibly afraid that he was merely a dream or part of her imagination. Something they both wished to not be true, either side enjoying the warmth between them, and the secret they now shared.

"Only if you are willing to spare some to these lonely bones." His accent was the anchor to her present as he spoke. His music had guided her in the past, and she found his voice guiding her in the present. She could only wonder at what would be there in the future.

"As a matter of fact, I would be honored." He continued.

"Well, then I would be honored to make you a pot. Of course, only if you are willing to watch me." The invitation did not go unnoticed and the old violinist more than willingly complied. This young lady reminded him of the day he had met his wife. A reward for him if he was willing to challenge himself to achieve a goal. He shook off the fond memories of the past and focused on the woman in his present.

"Delighted, of course; perhaps you could help me to the kitchen?" Dittmer took her hands firmly as she supported him, standing from the couch. With an arm placed around his waist, it was then he noted how tiny she was compared to him. Like a flower under the palm of a giant. A Danish giant.

The small trek to the kitchen took barely any time at all. He found himself leaning against the marble kitchen counter watching the tiny artist work. Even here he could feel the sort of lived in comfort this house had. He drank in the environment with a curious thirst, her delicate porcelain figures placed thoughtfully throughout the house. Unfortunately, there was a lack of family pictures. If anything at all, Anino had only one portrait of what he assumed to be her mother and sister in the living room.

Perhaps an unconscious or conscious decision to immortalize them in the smallest of ways. Even then, nothing got past the old Danish man. Her father must not have been such a prominent figure, just as she had told him. Nothing in this house told him she was influenced by the opposite sex or was even remotely attached. Nothing save for what he saw to be older albums of his.

Anino overcompensated for a possible lost female figure in her life. Surrounding herself with the ideals of the sweetness and romance of being a woman. One broken soul understanding another. _If only I had met you after the death of my wife_, he thought.

Anino worked fast, pulling the tea set from the cupboard, and feeling a sort of excitement from the way the dim light made the gold trimmings glow. The hand painted blue flowers of the delicate China only edged on the idea of Anino to Dittmer. He had never seen such raw talent so peacefully content in their environment. Working with what was around her rather than working against the tug and pull at life. That was what the world had forgotten. Fighting the many hardships of life as if it were the enemy; not taking the lessons and opportunities to make a better future. However, not this child before him. No, he could see the confidence and light dancing behind her fingertips as they ached to work the dexterity given life to them.

"You seem to be rather talented with your hands." Dittmer said fondly.

The young woman blushed and said nothing, continuing as her small hands paraded around her cabinets for the imported tea she had purchased. He was slightly pleased that he had been able to make her blush, before admonishing himself with a small shake of his head. The woman was fifty years his junior, and his murderer.

"Earl Grey?" Anino finally spoke as she opened the wooden box that held the delicious aromatic tea, her fingertips dancing across the lid.

"My favorite." Dittmer responded with an attractive smile that made her stomach flip. _If only one of us had been born in a different age, _she thought wistfully. However the cards had fallen this way, and these were the hands they had been dealt. In another universe, a different age, maybe things had turned out differently. Perhaps somewhere Baldur was her grandson as well, and she had grown old in age with the wise man now in her kitchen.

"Mine as well." A truce between them seemed evident.

He rather enjoyed watching the young lady work. The kettle whistling rather loudly as she briskly picked it up, and poured the hot steaming water over the tealeaves. Soon, the transparent liquid became murky, almost a dusty brown, until it reached its full chocolate color. A few clinks here and there from the golden spoons resting in their tea filled cups. Anino whisked by him, retrieving fresh milk from her fridge, and honey from her pantry.

There was no rush in her actions, considering what was to come, but she moved with ease and grace that told of her repeating the action a million times over.

She disappeared into another room for a few moments, and he could hear the opening of a cabinet and the clinking of plates.

"Do you usually make tea for dead men walking?" Dittmer asked nonchalantly as Anino came up to his side to slowly walk him to the dining room. Small cakes and cookies were laid out beautifully over China plates and delicate doilies. A tea party specifically for two people, how adorable.

"Only for the ones I like." Anino whispered up at the violinist, her eyes smiling at him at the confession. "As you can tell, I like you, quite a lot."

Dittmer rolled his head back to laugh at the statement; the young thing had fire in her that amused him. Such a sweet yet deadly flower, she was!

"Rest now, I'll go get the tea pot." Anino slowly helped the man into the wooden chair, and patted his shoulder affectionately, conveying the action as if he were her Grandfather.

And as she walked away, a slight bit of doubt sought after his heart. Perhaps he had gone senile enough to agree to such a ridiculous deal. However, one should merely be grateful that his killer was attractive. Yes, count your blessings, Dittmer. Count them well.

On the other hand, this was probably the easiest way to go. Controlling what he could and having had the choice to die in a way that was beauty embodied. Only a handful of people have had the luxury, he sarcastically told himself. No, this would be good for him. His family was well off, his meager legacy left to his grandchildren. His killer was someone he had hand-picked himself. He was thoroughly set. A smile made itself evident on his face by the time Anino had come back from the kitchen, a black lacquered tray being held by both hands. She hummed a sweet tune coming towards him.

"Your tea, good sir." Anino bowed slightly as she served him the teacup, and then brought the pot into view, pouring the sweet smelling liquid. The small pitcher for the milk was set to his left as the honey pot rested on his side. At least, she would treat him like a royal in his final moments. The female somewhat relished in the fact that her guest had his attention elsewhere. Her mind receded to its sweeter desires as she yearned to stay like this with him forever. If only possible, to be locked in this moment in time, always having his company.

Barely a word was said between them as Anino took a seat to the left of the table. Her hands held the pitcher up to pour the milk, and she looked at him as if to have his permission. The elderly man nodded his head as he looked at her, his green eyes mesmerizing her that she almost poured just a bit too much. The serving of honey was done in the same fashion; she looked at him for permission, taking just the smallest amount before handing him the golden delicatessen.

"My compliments to the chef," Dittmer still held that intriguing smile while he sipped the warm liquid. It thoroughly filled the cavity of his mouth and coated his somewhat parched throat. He enjoyed it for what it was, and felt a calm wash over him. This was right.

"Is there anything you want to ask? Anything to get off your chest?" Anino asked in a delicate way, as she sipped at her own tea with a perfected practice.

It took Dittmer a moment to think this through. Whatever he said would mean nothing to the world except for the lady near him. Any secrets would both be taken to the grave. Words were just words being passed by two people who found each other on even grounds. He was a dying man, nothing could be held against a senile bag of bones.

"I have yet to know your name," Dittmer sipped at his tea and began to reach for the pot. Fortunately, Anino was faster and she beat him to it. Still she held a grace even when she poured, as if she had poured for high society in a previous life.

"Anino. Anino Flor."

The words hung in the air as they continued the ritual of her asking for permission with her eyes as she added milk and honey to his tea.

"Are you Spanish, my darling?" The added endearment sent the teapot rattling back to its resting place, as the young lady grasped at her face, hiding a delicate smile.

"Of sorts, Mr. Laus. My original roots are from the Philippines, but my mother did have a streak of Spaniards in her family." The timid confession intrigued the Danish elder, and he leaned in on his elbows, reaching for a small macaroon, and brought it to his lips. He chewed the sweet confection thoughtfully and enjoyed the taste.

"I was just going to say, you're quite an attractive lady. Now I know why." Dittmer couldn't help himself but wink at Anino. Her reaction making him laugh and pat her arm lovingly. He felt good tonight and the calm that weighed his bones down was inviting.

"Fortunately, I am unwed, and what are words when spoken by a senile old man?"

It surprised him at first, how this young thing grabbed and held his hand, squeezing it with indescribable emotion hidden behind her eyes. "You have been very kind to me, Mr. Laus. Everything that I've wanted."

And tears began to fall from her pretty almond shaped eyes; carefully she brought his hand to her mouth, and she placed gentle kisses among his knuckles and fingers. Anino worshiped him, she respected him, and she loved him. Dittmer knew this much. And in his final moments, it was enough.

"How will you do it?" The question hung heavy in the air, and thankfully he felt no fear ebb at his heart.

Anino never stopped kissing his hand and squeezing it, "I already have."

A soft smile graced his lips, his eyes lighting with his dying breaths. He leaned forward, his thin lips gracing her cheek with a soft kiss before she turned her head, catching his soft breath on her mouth. Surprised, his eyebrows shot up, but again he kissed her with gentle determination, a hello and a goodbye without saying a word. Everything that had hung between them all evening, explained and laid to rest, dying with him. He retreated a few inches, staring at the wetness still falling from her eyes. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Your secret is safe with me, min kærlighed." He whispered, wiping away the tears with his thumb.

She bit her lip, trying to stop more tears from coming as he leaned back in his chair, the grin still on his face, as his eyes closed, and his lips came to rest in a thin line.

She put her half-empty teacup down in her saucer and stared at the body of Dittmer across from her, slouching in his chair, the body sagging under its weight. Slowly Anino leaned back in her chair, her hand still holding that of her momentary lover, the warmth of his quickly ebbing away. Anino did not want to let his hand go. If she did it meant she had to let _him _go, her sister go, and her past that was no more but a steady throb, the sickness poisoning her heart.

Anino stood on shaky legs, working slowly to calm herself down enough to take care of the tea and sweets left out on the table. She took her time wrapping the poisoned desserts in the doilies they had been sitting on, and slowly washed the cups and teapot, not feeling strong enough to face what was in her dining room.

After all of this had been done, she returned to look at the body.

Dittmer Laus would always be her shining masterpiece. The emotional and physical bond they shared today spoke to her more as a human being than anything she had experienced before. Relationships and intimacy with the opposite sex meant little to Anino. After Fatima had gotten sick, there was no more room inside her heart to commit to someone else. The soft kiss Dittmer and Anino had shared in the privacy of night and silence would stay with her forever.

If ever she started something so close with a man, the pure passion beheld within Dittmer's person was an expectation to be sought out. Even in her school years, the woman never shared so much as a passing glance with a man. She didn't need to; because there was no reason for such a thing in her life. However, tonight had been a different story. Tonight she had given the man she loved the purity that resided on her lips. It was harder, seeing him here, than she had thought. After their simple conversations, she had grown to care for the man, seeing him as a father, a lover, and a best friend.

Carefully, she slid the chair out from the table, and put her arms under his armpits, dragging him from the chair and down the hall. A few doors down, and she opened an entry she usually kept locked, and came to a set of stairs leading down. She was careful as she walked backwards down the steps, dragging the body as cautiously as possible.

Two flights down, and she came to the basement level of her home, where all her plastination supplies were kept. It was good for her that Dittmer was small and frail; if he had been any heavier it would have been impossible to carry him down here. She dragged him over to her workbench, a metal table where she laid the corpses, and hefted him up onto it rather clumsily.

She wiped her brow of the light sheen of sweat; maybe he had been heavier than she had initially thought. Anino could waste no time thinking however. She quickly grabbed her work apron and a pair of latex gloves from her bench and set to work preparing the injections she would have to give him for the formaldehyde base of fixation. After he would get two baths in different solutions, and then he would be set in the pose for the violinist painting he would inhabit. The hard part of course, would be in getting his clothes on after he was posed.

Anino set the needles near the body, so they could be easily reached when she was ready. Her gloved hand brushed a finger down his cheek as she stared at the lifeless form of her hero, her father, her friend, and her first kiss. Just as she had done with her sister, the first person she had set these strange methods too.

By the time her sister was found by her father in the pose of an angelic sleeping beauty, Anino had been long gone. And two years later she had perfected her craft and set to bringing honor to her sister's memory. If she was truly honest though, Anino also enjoyed the time spent in her basement, learning a new form of art. Instead of painting people, she was posing them; a timely craft, but one well worth the accolades she would receive.

Anino shook her head of the fanciful thoughts, and instead focused on Mr. Laus' body. She dutifully set about removing his clothes from him. She could not have him hardening with the wrong outfit in place; besides, it was easier to work with the body posing it when she could see everything. If she tried to plastinate him with his clothes on, they too would harden and become part of the sculpture.

She set aside his crisp suit, hanging it on a rack for another day; she grabbed the first of the syringe injections and set to work injecting the formaldehyde solution into his body at strategic points, making sure that it invaded his cells and tissues.

Her work done for tonight, Anino removed the apron and stood, leaving her basement refuge. It would be at least a week before she could work on him again as the formula set him. It would be well worth the long wait however, to see him memorialized forever, remembered by the world as someone significant.

†

_Present Day_

Hannibal left the music hall, fixing his coat and gloves as he walked across the parking lot. He ignored the hordes of people that had gathered at the once great venue, seemingly to honor, but really to gawk. People were as fascinated by death as they were afraid of it. As he walked, Hannibal thought. The crime scene had been too much a love letter, a memorialization to the man than his last crime. It seemed that whoever had killed Dittmer Laus had known him personally, or had admired him very much. Whereas the first had been distant and cold, the second was personal and loving. The way his shoes had been shined, the suit cleaned, his violin placed lovingly in his old hands, it all spoke of someone who cared deeply for the man as a person, and a performer.

Hurrying to his car, not paying attention, Hannibal was surprised when a reporter stepped in his way.

"Sir, are you just coming from the crime scene?" A woman shoved a microphone towards his face.

"Yes," he stammered, trying to recover himself.

"And what were you doing there?"

Hannibal sighed. "My name is Dr. Lecter; I'm a psychiatrist. I was brought in by the FBI to consult as a psychological profiler on the case."

"Is there anything you can tell us about the killer?"

"Nothing in my chosen field of study is concrete, and in fact churns out as many wrong answers as it does right. But, in my personal and professional opinion, this crime was a love letter to Dittmer Laus. Every attention given to him was too delicate, giving away that the killer was a fan and perhaps a resident of Baltimore, given Mr. Laus' small circle of fame. The killer is too emotionally driven. By treating Mr. Laus with such affection, they have most certainly given themselves away."

Hannibal bowed his head politely and pushed past the woman, quickly walking to his car and getting in. _See if that gets someone out to play, _he thought as he turned the key in the ignition.

†

"You heard it here first folks, the killer may be getting too personal in their slayings, giving more of their psychological traits away, leading to a closed and shut case. Straight from the mouth of one Dr. Lecter, Baltimore resident, you will not have to worry for long. This has been Marianne Reed reporting."

Anino hissed angrily, violently, a sound tearing itself from her throat. She threw the cup of brushes she had been holding at the wall, seething. He thought he knew her? That she could be so easily entrapped by his words and false charm? She would show him attention, would show all of them what personal meant.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Before we begin, we did edit and add/change things in chapter 2 to make it flow better, fix errors, and add more to her story with Dittmer. Highly suggest re-reading Chapter 2 before beginning this one. Thank you. **

Chapter 3

Ecstasy was a word Anino had recently become all too familiar with, revenge for the words said against her consuming all her thoughts. The slippery liquid between her fingertips, and the sudden warmth of flesh against steel, all of it was an exhilaration that sent the female's mind hazy.

The remaining blood slowly seeped out from the open wounds on the side of his neck. His death must have been rather unsettling, watching as your killer continuously stabbed you in the throat, red streaking over the bricked alleyway. It did not take much effort to hit the man with her heavy bag and knock him down. The rapid blood loss made it all too easy for the young black male to lose consciousness as his killer sat on top of his chest—gazing at the risk she had taken.

Marcus had been a tricky little bugger. The soft panting and groaning from the dying male below her sent chills rippling down her back. His bright eyes lost their familiar life and the adrenalin pulsating through him stilled. The boy was nothing more than a husk stuffed full of regrets and the beginning of a new drug.

"You'll do just fine, Marcus." Anino whispered over his cold face. "Thank you for your donation."

_To merely separate the college kid from his companions was hard enough. The action of catching his eyes sickened her, offering herself as a piece of meat to be butchered, in an entirely different way. Marcus had eyed her earlier in the night, something she had noticed, and which made him a favorable target. The nightclub was packed with various people who were looking to get wasted into next week, and others who wanted simple physical flings. It seemed that her intended victim was of the latter sort. _

"_Hey, pretty baby." the young man gave Anino a suggestive look over as he licked his lips. "I noticed you kept looking at me. Is there anything I can... help you with?"_

_Anino had to will away the temptation to fling her drink at the man, break her glass, and slice up his arrogant features, reminding herself this was for a good cause. A mission to complete and suffer through._

_The Asian female leaned in and traced her finger over the guy's belt buckle. Her gaze just as suggestive as she leaned into his ear and whispered, "You can help me with a lot of things. How about donating this for a physical examination, honey?"_

_The black male smirked down at Anino and ran his fingers over her backside, groping her in the public place. A small moan was pressed into the man's neck as Anino faked and exaggerated her motions. The slow grind against him had an added effect and the man yielded to her. Between the dancing and playful noises, Anino somehow managed to get her panting victim outside. _

At first, he persisted on wanting to take her to a hotel, his hands never leaving her body as she pulled him further down the sidewalk and into a dark side alley. A quick exchange of names sent the female grasping the man's shirt as he pushed her against the alley wall.

"I want it here." It was enough suggestion for Marcus to pick her up and to straddle himself against her abdomen, her legs wrapping around his waist.

As he fidgeted with his pants and belt, the poor fool never noticed how his female friend reached forward for something; nor did he see how easily he bared his neck for the beast to strike.

The first stab into his jugular was messy, unpracticed. All she knew was red. The second strike went further in. Marcus began to scramble away from the woman, hands releasing her, trying now to hold his throat together, but she tightened her body around him like a vice. Her arm, the blade continuously going further in each time, stilled his head. After the third or fourth assault, he was a gushing fountain.

By this time Marcus had begun to slump against Anino. Slowly, she let him free to give him the small hope he would walk away, her feet hitting the pavement, his body no longer supporting her. He staggered a few steps, clutching desperately to keep his own blood from spilling more. Anino darted for the bag she had dropped, swinging it forcefully at his head. Marcus dropped on his belly to the alley. Her heeled boot kicked him over so he lay on his back. She hiked her skirt up around her thighs, the easier to crush his ribs beneath her as she sat, watching as the small pool of blood formed and her thoughts raced to keep up with what she had just done.

With Dittmer's death, so too had her old methods gone. She no longer killed only to honor her sister, but to show off her prowess as an artist, and to satisfy the sick curiosity growing inside her. Marcus was the first in a long line of new opportunities.

"_Thank you for your donation."_

†

The dim glow of the pharmacy lights cast a strange and sickly glow on Anino's hooded face. She had followed him for days, quietly lurking after him, understanding him, making sure that he was the one. His name was Albert Finnegan, a man in his early thirties, still living with his parents, and suffering from schizophrenia. He was the perfect match for her piece, her counterpart to the real life Will.

She leaned back against the brick wall as he exited the pharmacy, an unlit cigarette hanging between her plum lips. Her fingers curled in anticipation, her body remembering the rush she had felt from the death of the college student mere days before. Her boots made no noise against the damp pavement as she followed him in the dark.

After he had rounded the corner Anino darted after him, a slender arm wrapping itself about his torso, surprise causing him to drop the pharmacy bag. Her blade came up quickly, practiced fingers easily sliding it from her boot. It ran effortlessly against the flesh of his throat exposed, by his loose sweater, blood spraying down the dark street, mixing with the rainwater that had fallen hours before.

Albert's body writhed in his death throes, Anino still holding him in her arms, as she felt sick satisfaction almost akin to an orgasmic pleasure. His body stilled, and she dragged him carefully down the dead street, to the car she had parked earlier. She threw him into the backseat, onto the tarp she had laid down and got in, driving back to her home where she would put him away with Marcus, until she could find a viable counterpart for the good doctor.

†

The gentle chimes of the church bells rang through the white stone as the three men posed elegantly on either side of each other. The plethora of colors from the stained glass windows drenched the sanctuary in a colorful flush. Yet something tainted the holy air of this righteous complex.

Where church goers should have been standing to illuminate the candles for prayers and blessings, stood at the center were otherworldly garbed strangers that held steadfast with their swords touching at the ends; a trio of friendly steel. Their expressions literally frozen in place by ice and thread. An artfully crafted piece that took not only the grotesque and morbid but the careful eye of noting human expressions.

Their costumes were nothing short of extravagant and exact. The embellishments of gold thread pulled through the royal blue fabric made the decomposing bodies look out of place within them; a modern soul in the vessel of a bygone age. Each outfit held a certain individual style yet related to each other in both color and cut. It was easy to see from the grandeur of their feathered hats that these men took after a certain era. An era deemed long forgotten in history books that had little to no time in the present and modern world.

"The Three Musketeers?" Will turned his questioning gaze to look at Jack briefly. "Really?"

Hannibal quirked a brow, his eyes languidly taking in what was set before him. "It could be that this is how the killer sees us – which is possible. We were at the first crime scene together. So whoever did this watched us, and listened to our critiques of their work."

Will grunted. "Obviously he wasn't happy with what we thought."

Jack was not too pleased by the sordid show of death in a church. Somewhat a mockery to the Jesus that hung from his cross, looking down at the slowly thawing men. The very men some believed he had died to save. Something like this did not need to be thrown about so recklessly and disrespectfully in a church, especially one that had the highest attendance in the main Baltimore area. There need not be any more public view on rancid murderers going free on every corner. The public needed to stay calm and remain within their reason. This sort of show... it meant chaos and disruption from all sides.

"Father Dumas," Jack held out his hand to shake the head priest's hand and pull the shocked man off to the side. "Thank you for your time, Father. I can't say it's a pleasure what with this situation."

The old priest lowered his head down as he clasped his hands together tightly. The priest's body trembled, his scattered nerves overcoming him as Jack tried to question him.

"Tell me about when you discovered the bodies, father."

"I came in to ready for morning Mass." Father Dumas replied softly, his eyes lifted to look at Jack brokenly. "It's a horrible thing, to do something so unsightly to those men... especially... that one."

Jack followed the elderly man's eyes towards the musketeer in the center who was more indistinguishable than his two friends were. There was a raw anger, physically taken out on him more so than the others were. A few of the younger officers had been told to leave the scene, Jack fearing that bile would contaminate any evidence to be found.

"Was there anything out of the ordinary, Father? Anything at all? Perhaps someone who stayed later than usual last night? Maybe even a new employee? Anything at all?" Jack calmly persisted in questioning the priest who had to turn his back away from the mutilated victims.

"None at all, detective." Father Dumas rubbed the tears from his eyes as he set in motion a quiet prayer. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

Noticing the discomfort of the priest, Jack thanked the man again before asking an officer to escort him away from the crime scene.

Jack quietly turned on his heels and walked back to the other men. Will rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve as he breathed heavily. The tumble back from his transcendent profiling taking a number on him as of late. The things he saw would be the next layer of foundation for his nightmares.

"Are we sure it's our man?" Jack's voice boomed loudly enough for Hannibal to shoot him a side-glance and for Will to jump, surprised, from his reverie gulping.

"Well, that depends if our man has taken on a new approach, Jack." Will placed the glasses back comfortably on his face before motioning towards the bodies. "They aren't plastinated like the others. I doubt they earned that right."

Jack raised his brows at Will once again before inquiring, "What do you mean?"

The curly haired profiler turned to face the detective head on as he gave a dry laugh, "We aren't appreciating his work."

Almost as quickly as he spoke, Will abruptly closed his mouth and willed his body to ease itself back; feeling the familiar bile start to rise in his throat. The crime scene was starting to affect him now. However, Jack stared down the bodies once more. Feeling his questions were being unanswered further frustrated him, and he settled for watching Hannibal closely, trying to glean what the man was thinking.

"Doctor?" Jack called over at the psychiatrist steadily, who in turn pointed at the young African American victim.

"I believe this is you." Hannibal tilted his head ever so slightly to the side as he turned his eyes back onto the frozen victims. Their particular mutilation piqued his interest, the difference subtle but telling. The threads holding their faces into somewhat grinning expressions made the air crawl with excitement. "And this charming man is you, Will."

Hannibal noted with a hint of dry curiosity that he seemed to be the least harmed, and in fact seemed to be in almost perfect condition, compared to what 'Jack' and the other man had gone through.

The young profiler walked over to where the yellow tape stopped in front of the corpses and squinted. The Caucasian male Dr. Lecter had gestured to boasted a distinct mop of curly hair and slightly darkened stubble over his distorted face. A sweetly sickening feeling rushed over Will as he turned to smile darkly at Hannibal. His hand came up, one finger lazily motioning towards the middle figure.

"Leaving you, Dr. Lecter, the most mutilated of the three." Will surmised casually. "What did you do to piss him off, Doctor?" His stormy ocean eyes looking hard at the Dane, bearing down on him.

Jack's footsteps echoed from behind them. The cold stone below their feet catching every tread as he walked fully up to the tape.

"He spoke to the press about Mr. Laus," Jack offered candidly, a smug look replacing the serious one he held previously. "You were the only one to do so, and from his point of view—that was possibly quite uncouth of you."

The Danish man bit his tongue to keep it from slithering about, however his eyes glared down in slits, focused on the body said to be 'his'. He had to remain calm or else there would not just be three dead bodies here. It was not as if Hannibal would have minded either way, and he was sure the artist would not mind the addition to his canvas.

"Strange." Will leaned into the crime scene a bit further. "We're missing a musketeer."

The psychiatrist cocked his head to the side as he studied Will for a moment and agreed, "You are correct, Will. However, d'Artagnan was feistier than the others were—more playful. Perhaps our killer thinks himself as the fourth? Watching on as his friends take the spotlight, waiting for the opportune moment to reveal himself."

Jack gave Hannibal a sidelong glance before taking a voice in the conversation, "Are you saying that this is his sick way of entertaining us, Doctor?"

"Indeed, Jack. A showing of his art in a different brush stroke, using different mediums. The beauty and detail still reside regardless of technique." Hannibal finally pulled himself away from the bodies as he began to put on his coat effortlessly.

"Some say the world is their oyster. This man thinks the world is his canvas."

Nearing the exit, he noticed his last comment had the detective rubbing his chin, "Our friend d'Artagnan is teaching us to appreciate something new. I think it best we learn from this, Jack. He's evolving."

Will gave one final glance towards the bodies before he too followed the Dane. Having already said what he needed to and leaving the rest up to autopsy to finish the smaller details of the victim's untimely demise. Autopsy would confirm his suspicions about how and when the men had been killed. This was a slow trek into a darkness he had yet to experience; Will was sure however, that it would be pricked with moments of light and clarity. He only hoped the dark did not consume him utterly as he tried to further understand this artist, he had begun to call d'Artagnan.

Hannibal turned to Jack, a question on his lips. "Are you any further in figuring out who was at the party last week, at the music hall?"

Jack nodded. "We've already spoken with a few of the ticket holders; some gave their tickets away and we're currently tracking everyone down to bring them in for questioning this evening."

The trio made way out into the sprinkling afternoon day, Jack pulling his collar up to shield himself from the biting wind. An officer came up to hand all three men umbrellas as they made way to their vehicles.

"If you two have nothing better to do today, I'd appreciate your opinions at the interrogation this evening." Jack said, his tone indicating that he expected them to show up.

"Of course," Hannibal nodded his head at the detective respectfully.

"I'll be there to observe, Jack. You know questioning isn't my forte." Will explained.

Jack conceded with a nod of his head. "I'll call you both as they begin to be brought in."

†

"Hmm," Hannibal hummed softly to himself, absentmindedly licking his bottom lip. He carefully fingered the wool fabric between his index finger and thumb, idly contemplating the dark rustic colors for this evening's tryst.

Granados' _The Maid and the Nightingale_, played in the background, the masterful piano strokes striking cadence within Hannibal, making tonight feel special. It was a meeting of friends, of co-workers, of lovers.

He held up a new tie against a salmon pink dress shirt, and hummed his approval. Stepping over to his Chester drawers, he opened the top drawer and carefully skimmed his fingers over a number of pocket watches. Finally, he picked one up with a burnished gold appearance, and a Victorian floral carving.

Ever so slowly, Hannibal unbuttoned the light blue dress shirt he was currently wearing. His fingers expertly freeing the buttons and making quick work to unhook his mother of pearl cuff links. The dress shirt slipped effortlessly off of his soft shoulders, gliding down his toned arms, until he easily swooped the shirt to the side with one hand. The fabric was gently laid to rest against the back of a leather-upholstered chair.

It took a matter of seconds for him to discard the rest of his clothing. The silver watch was swiftly unhooked, and found its way back home into the top drawer. The piano picked up its crescendo in the background, and almost as if he was trying to keep up with the pace, Hannibal's movement flowed like water along a riverbed. The bright salmon shirt was lifted up by one hand as both arms steadily filled the empty spaces. The fabric swooped down to cover Hannibal's back, and rested nicely against his lean frame.

The thrill of the chase sent the blood pumping through his veins. There was a slight tingle in his gut, perhaps because tonight he would come closer to seeing who was on the other end of the brush. The d'Artagnan to this distorted federal quartet, someone who stayed close enough to see, to hear, and to observe.

He succinctly buttoned his shirt, tucking it into his nutmeg brown suit pants, doing up the matching belt with a practiced ease. It truly was exciting; the Dane smirked to himself now, admiring his taut reflection in the mirror. He noted how the collar fit snugly around his neck, a burgundy silk tie draped over him as he overlapped the ends, until finally looping and knotting them into a posh double Windsor knot. The intricate light pink flowers that veined throughout the deep burgundy color added a fun flair to the dark suit.

There was a pleasure in how the soft fabric stretched comfortably against his skin. Like a flower bush freshly pruned to exact the attention towards the red buds, standing out in a foliage of uninterrupted sophistication and grace. He was almost done.

The pocket watch gave a gentle weight as it resided within his pants' pocket, the chain hooked to the vest, so as to give off an air of pure sophistication. The dark glossy sheen of his Louis Vuitton loafers catching the light just enough to make a subtle statement from the floor up. There oozed a sort of dangerous sex appeal from the psychiatrist as he swayed gently with the dying piano notes.

His masterpiece was done. Hannibal looked the epitome of suave grace and deadly guise.

†

Jack looked down at the manila folder before him, swiping it up as he left the interrogation room, and entered the viewing room. He had interviewed nine people so far that evening, and the last for the night was about to head in. He stood in between Will and Hannibal as she was led into the gray metal room.

"Her name is Anino Flor, twenty-three years old. She was given a ticket by her friend Kiki Jones, who won it through the salon where they both work. She has another job as well, working for Reconnaissant l'artiste, a famed art restoration company out of downtown Baltimore.

"Her mother died when she was young, her younger sister shortly after. She hasn't spoken with her father in the two years since her sister's death and lives alone on a farm in the country."

"Is the farm working?" Will asked a note of interest in his voice. "Does it have cattle, produce, anything?"

Jack skimmed over the file. "It says here when she first bought the place she had a few horses, but had to sell them to be able to keep the place, and ended up getting the second job at the salon."

Hannibal breathed out through his nose, staring through the glass, the room still empty. "Unwilling to move then; she likes the location for a reason."

"Maybe she enjoys the privacy." Will suggested.

All three of them quieted as the interrogation room door opened, and a petite Asian woman was ushered inside by an officer.

Anino felt strangely out of place in the vast metallic room. The bright lights accentuated the colorful splotches of paint, chalk, and whatever else the female could get her hands on. The white jersey t-shirt she wore was ruined from over-use. Her old distressed jeans had more scratches and loose threading than Hannibal thought possible; too much to be considered fashionable. She was a woman who fit into the starving artist category, he decided. Her long black hair in a peasant braid over her left shoulder, the loose hairs stained blue from her nights work.

He thought it hard to believe that this young woman worked for a notable art company. He eyed her carefully through the double sided mirror, his arms crossed at the waist.

"Miss Flor," Jack casually opened the door and smiled easily.

The slouching woman jumped up to stand awkwardly as he entered, unsure of herself and what to do.

"Please, sit down." He gestured to her chair.

The small Asian nodded her head and eased gently back into her chair. The obvious black ink stains on her hands made her feel wild and dirty in front of the suited detective. The obvious way he held himself meant he had a sort of authority and class; he clearly outranked the others she had seen in this building, which meant she had mocked some sort of official through her work. She smiled inwardly at the thought.

The questions were harmless of course. At first, they were almost endearing towards her. Maybe this man could feel the uncomfortable atmosphere between them. Jack's dark eyes bared down on her menacingly, seeing only an innocent child.

"Where were you on the night of the Golden Bell event, Miss Flor?" Jack looked down at his folder and readied his pen to make notes.

Anino chewed on her lips slowly and replied, "I was at the event in question, sir. A friend gave me her ticket so she could spend more time with her husband. I took it off her hands because I have always been a lover of music, sir."

"Because of your sister?" Jack asked.

Anino visibly bristled at the mention of her. "Fatima, yes."

Hannibal stood up straighter, his interest piqued slightly as her body language shifted marginally before returning to her previous, uninterested state.

"Damn shame what happened to her." Jack lamented, flipping pages in his file.

Her eyes fell downcast as she was reminded of the event that haunted her nightmares, the memory seared forever onto her brain.

This particular witness held a sort of traumatized air about her, the way she avoided Jack's soft gaze, moved her hands aimlessly about her, picked harmlessly at her clothes…the mere mention of her sister seemed to have made the young woman fray slightly at the edges. Hannibal clearly noted the signs of abuse, possibly of her own design.

"Yes, yes it was." She whispered in reply.

Jack caught her eyes, and quickly changed the subject, continuing his line of questioning. In the observation room, there was a knock at the door, which Will answered.

Baldur strode coolly into the room, his spring green dress shirt, and black suit pants accentuating his lean frame and dark green eyes. His light brown hair was pulled back in a bun, tendrils falling into his eyes. Hannibal fought the urge to roll his eyes at the cocky young man. He had been brought in for every witness questioning to identify the partygoer, and tell what he could remember about them.

"Do you recognize her?" Will asked, gesturing towards the young woman.

Baldur stepped up to the glass, crossing his arms, hands gently grasping his elbows. He cocked his head as he stared, sorting through that night at the party. Slowly he nodded his head.

"She spoke to my grandfather for a long while, and afterwards he left, claiming he felt ill."

Hannibal cocked his brow, regaining interest in the chameleon before him. _Are you d'Artagnan?My, my, my…_ Suddenly the little girl had become more riveting, and he stepped forwards toward the glass partition. Maybe dressing up this evening would not have been a waste of time after all. Hannibal mentally agreed with himself and watched the remaining interrogation in silence. 

Will knocked on the glass, alerting Jack that they needed to talk to him. He thanked Baldur for his time, and gestured him out of the room as Jack stepped in.

"What is it?" Jack asked.

"Baldur recognized her as a guest at the party, who talked to Mr. Laus for a time; afterwards he claimed he felt ill and went home." Will recounted.

"Meaning she's a possible suspect in his death, being the last one to have conversed with him." Jack stated. "That's good Will, that's good."

He stepped back into the interrogation room, a different swing in his step now. He sat down across from Anino, and re-opened the file, making note of the new information from Baldur.

"It is my understanding Miss Flor, that you spoke to Dittmer Laus the night of the party?"

Hannibal noted no change in her demeanor as she answered calmly.

"Yes I did. I wanted him to know that my sister had been a fan of his music." She needn't waste her time trying to explain her life and history with people like him. There was no room within this man to fully comprehend the intimacy between life and art. It was etched so plainly on his face.

Jack nodded, writing a few things down.

"Did you know that he left the party shortly after speaking with you?" Jack kept his eyes on Anino this time, observing her mannerisms to the slightest twitch. If her breath even hitched, the detective wanted to experience it firsthand.

Anino shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not. I spoke with a few of the other guests, but left after a few hours." She shrugged. "Parties have never been my idea of time well spent. I only went in honor of my sister, who had favored his music."

Jack finally looked down as he jotted some notes on the paper. "Well, that's all the questions we have for now. However, we'll contact you if we have any more inquiries."

"Of course, anything." She affirmed softly as she smiled at the older gentleman.

"I hope you have a good rest of your evening Miss Flor," Jack said as he shook her hand.

"Likewise Mr. Crawford."

"The officer in the hall has your bag and coat." Jack reminded her, opening the door for Anino to leave. It was a freedom much needed. The female almost danced her way down the long hallway, wanting to be free of the old building. She craved the independence and open air of her home.

Surprisingly, her items had found their way into the suited arms of a familiar face, a man who was not the officer from earlier. Anino felt her blood heat up from the quiet, constant stare of the tall statue of a human being. Hannibal Lecter was the last person she thought she would encounter.

"I thought I might escort the young lady outside." He said with a bow of his head, and a smile in her direction. "Baltimore is quickly becoming a dangerous place to walk alone."

Anino feigned being flustered, and shifted her feet, as she waited for her coat to be relinquished. It was already getting nippy standing near the main lobby entrance. The brisk air making its way to her small frame and forming goose bumps upon her exposed epidermis. The down filled parka was like a comfortable blanket wrapping her in squishy padding. It served well to fend off the cold wind. Unfortunately, her purse was still being withheld from her grasp.

"I need my keys," Anino said blatantly as she reached for the now extended bag.

Hannibal watched how she trailed her eyes over him cautiously. The trust was obviously fleeting the more she looked on. Finally, her gaze ended at his grinning face, where it solidified her instinct to run, and run fast.

_Hmm, smart girl. _ The Dane thought to himself, internally grinning.

"I appreciate the company." Anino smiled slowly at her companion.

She was upset that she seemed to be unsure of herself around him. His angular features and hooded eyes were archetypal of a high-class European man; combined with his sense of dress, he seemed every bit an aristocrat shoved out of time. His accent even seemed put there by God to tempt her – the lilting hard and soft words so familiar, having come from an older, thinner mouth. Anino chided herself on being unable to keep her thoughts in order around the older man. He made her…nervous.

"I do not believe we have been introduced. My name is Doctor Hannibal Lecter." the way his voice deepened and his mouth formed around his own name, sent a tingling crawl down Anino's spine. Something she had never felt with another human being. It was a feeling known to her only through the craft she practiced. His presence was as electrifying as it was shrouded; his reasons hidden in a miasma of sophistication and depth.

Anino wasn't quite sure how to place him. He was different, indeed. The introduction was neat and practiced, treating her like a first time patient. She knew his name; he was acknowledged around town as a good psychiatrist. There were whisperings of him in the papers related to Jack Crawford and Will Graham. Of course, she remembered how he had defaced her adoration of Mr. Laus, the memory still buzzing in the back of her mind. Through all of this, she still painted a serene expression and calmly shook his larger, surprisingly soft, hand.

The slight pressure could have been taken as a gentle kiss against his palm; the artist was as small and feminine as a young woman could be. His mind still doubted that she could have crossed the line of what was considered morally correct with the way she exposed herself. Self-preservation seemed to be her reason for this approachable façade. A ruse, he decided, and not the woman standing before him. Hannibal wanted _her. _He wanted the meat of her.

A small part of him hoped that this was not the best she dressed. A killer was supposed to have sophistication, was supposed to take pride. This was as much in the way they killed, as in the way they looked. This young woman seemed not to care, firing off thoughts in Lecter's brain.

"It's a pleasure, sir. I'm Anino Flor." The reply was swift, demure.

Hannibal raised his eyebrows at the smaller female, "Just Anino? There must be a title to such a unique name."

Anino pursed her lips at him. "Well, I'm a simple artist. Not a doctor that tends to people; perhaps my patients are instead the canvases sent in to me."

"If I may, you wear a proud badge of the many, assumed, successful operations you've done." Hannibal brought a hand up and lazily rubbed the ends of her braid between his fingers, feeling the dried blue paint. His other hand carelessly rubbed at her shoulder, pink chalk coming away on the pads of his fingers.

When his eyes darted up, he almost missed the reddening tinge to her cheeks, her skin being such a beautiful brown. Hannibal felt a slight pride in having made her blush, and slowly withdrew his hands to his sides.

The mischievous humor reflected in her chocolate brown orbs surprised him, in a pleasant way he decided. Her full cheeks rounded as she smiled, and let out a shaky giggle. A sound, he decided, he would have to extract in its purest form.

"It keeps me busy since I'm alone now." Anino fingered her keys aimlessly. The repeated action set the cogs inside the psychiatrist's mind spinning.

"You seem to suffer from some mild anxiety, Miss Flor. Perhaps I can help you learn to master it." The nurturing tone was a change from the seductive voice of before. She bit her plump bottom lip, not interested in the least in what he was offering.

"It's something I've dealt with most of my life Dr. Lecter." He noted how easily her vocal tone changed from breathy to distant; all in the span of a few seconds she had decided his interactions not worth her time. "I'll be alright."

"Here," Hannibal reached inside of his suit pocket. "Take my card. Just in case you ever want to talk…about anything."

The firm parchment felt smooth against the grain of Anino's fingers. She felt as if the vellum were singing to her senses, and the gilded frame was impressively done. The red font was obviously deceiving; the invitation to take a bite out of a poisoned apple was tempting.

She said nothing, instead holding the card up for him to see, as she placed it in her bag.

Hannibal's responding smile was patient, a light tug at the corners of his lips.

"Now that we have gone through the social discourse of introductions, would you like to be escorted to your car?" He held out his arm for her to take.

Even though it seemed an easy invitation, Anino knew it was one she could not refuse.

"Please." She stated, only a slight tremor in the arm that took his.

He opened the door to the chill Baltimore air, and then they were alone in the dark. His stride was patient, clearly wanting to take his time with her in the evening air. However, he also quickly fell into step beside her, their feet hitting the smooth pavement at the same time. Anino suddenly began lamenting the fact that she had decided to park a few blocks over, as her body involuntarily nestled closer to his, the cold wind biting through even her thick parka.

Hannibal cast his eyes down at the top of her head, marveling quietly at the show of intimacy, and was surprised by how much he adored her soft touch. Yet something sweet lingered around her, a kind of freshness that made the Dane breathe in more deeply, a need to catch another trail of that invigorating scent rising within him. Ah, yes, there it was. Something akin to that of the countryside and lush green trees purifying the smog-filled air that filled his world. He almost feared that more time spent in her presence would purify the grime that he felt surrounded him.

He was broken from his thoughts, new ones crashing over him. The way her small hand tightly gripped at his arm brought to mind the memory of a young child whom had passed many years ago. If she were to say his name now, her eyes shining, lips parted as she begged fro some sweet confection, Hannibal would have mistaken her for someone else. Someone with whom he could let his guard down, and share the most exclusive of intimacies.

"Do you do this often?" Anino perked up her head, not anticipating just how closely the psychiatrist had leaned down.

The sudden speed of her heartbeat echoed through her and into Hannibal. The adrenalin that he knew was coursing through her, akin to that of a cornered animal, had the Dane licking his lips. He admired the effect it had on the Asian artist, noting just how her eyes widened, and her mouth parted, her gaze lowering to his now wetted mouth. The action seemed to Hannibal to appear as if an invitation danced on her lips. A card she was not aware she had sent out.

"Do what?" Hannibal's voice became deeper and his face contorted to that of a wolfish grin, possibly echoing the face of the man he used to be. He seemed different and almost approachable without the dark tinge that prickled the evening air. The way he stared at her held the perversion of an experienced man who saw his next physical morsel.

"Escort young vulnerable girls to their cars." The teasing tone was followed by the slight quirk of her eyebrow. She was still unbelieving of his motive for walking her out here.

"Only the ones I find interesting." Hannibal easily replied.

Anino dreaded what the slight glint in his eyes meant, and she treaded carefully with her next words. "What… what makes me so interesting, Dr. Lecter?"

Time seemed to stop for the both of them as they stood there on the sidewalk. Anino wanted to pull away from the thickening emotion than welled up inside of her. The enigmatic stranger was meticulously staring her down at, almost as if she was a specimen being viewed through a microscope. It made her skin crawl at the thought.

The long pause from Hannibal only furthered her stress. His mind was connecting the many crime scenes from months before, the intricacies of each victim, regardless of if they were brutalized, or patiently posed. Thinking back now, there was the smallest bit of a feminine touch, a gentleness expressed in the victims who had been treated as brush strokes on her worldly canvas.

Poison, they said, was a woman's murder weapon. There were so many poisons, and ways to make them, or buy them, that it would be almost impossible to track down. Did this woman's delicate hands seem as if they could commit murder of the easiest sort? Hannibal scoffed slightly at the idea of it. He had always thought poisoners a more cowardly sort of killer, not brave enough to feel the life leave a person. Not brave enough to play God.

Yet Hannibal pondered if he _wanted_ her to be the killer. The disregard for taking care of her appearance could be easily forgotten. But the way she smelled, fresh, leaving just a hint of spice on his tongue, telling him that she was not all she seemed. Trying to compare her to the other women he knew seemed difficult. The taste could not be placed with Abigail Hobbs. No, her scent and after taste left something sweeter than spice on his tongue. Perhaps long ago Alana had elicited a similar feeling, but no more.

If this dim creature before him really was a killer, she was smarter than Hannibal had previously been giving her credit for. However, her blatant innocence towards him and the smallest form of physicality between them made him question the idea that she really was a killer. It was too difficult for him to imagine her doing it, but she was an artist, and the information seemed to fit slowly together in his mind.

Hannibal turned his gaze forward once more, and continued their steady pace. So, if he assumed the viewpoint that she was the killer, it meant she was smart. In addition, that she was highly skilled as an artist to be able to transfer her work to the real world. If she was working for such a prestigious company, the young woman had to be good at what she did. She was also young; Jack had said twenty-three. Anino had not been killing for long, meaning she was inexperienced, and that her most recent work had been her first foray out of the jungle of poison, into the field where the masters played.

He smiled, his eyes lighting as the thought came to him. "You remind me of d'Artagnan." He said simply. After a moment's pause, he added, "I can appreciate good art when I see it, Miss Flor, and I must say yours is excellent. I would hate for something to occur that prevented you from finishing your pieces."

He felt satisfaction as the woman shivered next to him, and not, he knew, from the cold.

"What are you, Doctor Lecter?" She asked, coming to stand by her car.

With an almost predatory grin, Hannibal leaned forward to open the driver's door for her. As he pulled back, his lips ghosted against her ear.

"I am not unlike yourself." He whispered. "And please, call me Hannibal."

Anino whipped herself around to look at him, his expression, the way he held himself, betraying nothing about the words he had just spoken to her. She got into her car, he closed the door softly, and walked away. Anino gripped the steering wheel tight, mind racing, thoughts going over what had just happened. He knew.

**A/N: All right guys, this took forever – like about 24hrs of straight work between the both of us to get this chapter just right. We did way too much research into what Hannibal's bedroom looked like, the suits he wore, the exact knot of his tie, how he would match ties to shirts and pocket squares. Vanyiah and I spent fifteen minutes hunting down the GIF of him putting on his dress shirt from **_**En Kort En Lang **_**to be able to describe him putting it on. She spent 3mins slowing it down in photoshop to perfectly describe it, and about twenty minutes just on those few sentences. **

**Hours went into editing and switching paragraphs, choreographing their first meeting, looking up the color of Hugh Dancy's eyes. We had a very serious conversation about how to describe them just right. **

**Her first murder at the beginning of this chapter? That alone was a good ****3-4**** hours of writing, reading, re-writing, re-reading, switching, and looking up words in the thesaurus. Vanyiah looked up video on how to put on cuff links, and Louis Vuitton making shoes. We searched the internet for him walking into the courtroom, and argued for about five minutes over whether or not to call them loafers! We argued over the difference between the colors wine and burgundy, and I flipped over the **_**exact shade of brown **_**for his suit. We went pocket watch shopping to pick out which one he would wear! We had a five-minute conversation about if Anino was a horse person or not. I had to have Vanyiah describe what Baldur does when he is looking through the glass, with his elbows crossing holding thing, because I could not English – it was about midnight. **

**So much time was spent formatting, because we use different programs to write – I use Word and she uses OneNote. It all ends up on my laptop since I upload it so I have to change the spacing, font style, font size, color, and make the paragraphs stick together. **

**I love working with this crazy person because **_**she makes me better. **_**I look at paragraphs and sentences that we've worked on for hours and still think this could be better, because we can do better. She's my best friend, and I'm so happy to be working on something with her, and so incredibly proud that it's turned out this well. It's all her guys, she's awesome. Seriously – she made like ten pots of tea when I was over there and I had about ****7-8**** of them **_**all by myself. **_**She made me some of the most delicious breakfast and dinner dishes I have ever eaten in my life. I need her for more than just her ability to mold the English language. I literally needed her that day to feed me delicious food I might never have thought would count as a dish. Seriously, she is one of the best people I know, and I'm so glad I get to see her in person and not just exchange emails about this story. **__

**The point of this long AN is, I just wanted you all to know how seriously we take this book, and how much time goes into the smallest of details to make sure everything **_**is **_**Hannibal. We may not update on a timely schedule, but we put effort into it to make sure it is the best that we can make it, so when someone reviews, or favorites, or even reads to the very bottom, we want you to know how much we appreciate every single one of you. Thank you. **

**Vanyiah A/N: So basically what we're saying is that we've become such serious writers we've given our souls up to the fanfiction gods. Yup! A lot of effort and detail has been put into this so much to make sure all characters are as canon as possible. Every small character expression, and action has been carefully observed from the show. Making sure it still remains true to all the people we've used in the fanfic.**

**As Nerdy praises me, I in turn have to take a moment to say the easy flow and pace of this story has been to her talents. She adds more than enough bling to a sentence to make it really leave an impression. Not to mention always just sprucing up a dialogue. She's just been the back bone to the random things I write out and throw at her.**

**We don't want to cut corners or quickly throw scenarios that are unrelated at you. We always try to second guess ourselves to make sure our OC isn't Mary-Sue like or boring. We want to make sure we drag things along and give a slow even burn to each chapter.**

**We hope you enjoy the story and really take time to read into each detail. There are obvious and subtle puns strewn about, evident foreshadowing of things to come, and serial killer flirtations.**

**Please leave us your thoughts and reviews. Heaven only knows how encouraging and helpful they are to our writing! Please feel free to leave even your fangirly spews as well! Tell us how well we describe Will and Hannibal! Tell us if we overlooked a silly yet simple detail! Feedback is what keeps us pushing through.**

**All my thanks to Nerdy for being patient and critiquing everything I've done! And many thanks to our reviewers (from Europe) who have said we did well with keeping Mads Danish origin. Many thanks to the folks from the US of Awww for being curious of Anino and leaving their encouraging comments, as well :) You're all too kind!**


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